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It doesn’t look like Iowa. It looks like me. Those colors the colors I’m made of, the dirt of this place in my bones, silted up around my heart.
I can’t keep being two people. The clock’s running down, my time almost up, and I won’t let myself string Caroline along, let her think I’m some other guy, some Iowa version of myself, when I’m not. I don’t get to be.
I’m Frankie’s.
I can’t be Frankie’s and keep Caroline. I wish I could, but there’s no point in wishing.
Every time I kissed Caroline, I pulled her deeper in. Deep and then deeper, until I couldn’t come home again without bringing her along.
“Here’s my girl,” I told my mother. “The pretty one. ”
I sat on Bo’s couch in the dark and told Caroline, “I want inside you. I want you here. ”
But I was pretending. There’s no world that has Frankie and my mom and Caroline in it, all of them belonging to me.
I’ve made a mess of things. That’s what it all boils down to. A heinous fucking mess.
Caroline is in me, and now I’ve got to cut her out.
JANUARY
Caroline
Winter break was endless. I slept in late and padded around the house in my slippers. The rest of the world was working, productive, but I had nothing to do.
I played six million games of Minesweeper, which—yeah, I don’t even know. Obviously there are better games. I couldn’t bring myself to commit to anything that involved more than one level or any sort of complex strategy.
It was draining, being home. Christmas in the Caribbean wore me out. Having to smile so much. Having to talk about my classes, my friends, my interests, and never mention West or the bakery, Nate or the pictures, any of it.
Keeping secrets is exhausting. When your whole life turns into a secret, what then?
I told my dad about rugby. He didn’t like the idea of me playing a tackle sport.
“You should play golf,” he said.
“Dad, I hate golf. ”
“What’s wrong with golf?”
Golf made me think of West. How he caddies, so he must know when to hand somebody a nine iron or a sand wedge. How he must have opinions about drivers and wear some kind of a uniform—a crisp polo shirt, khaki shorts. He must look so different.
I pored over Google maps, searching for golf courses in Oregon, trying to guess which was his.
My grades came. Two A’s, two A-minuses. Dad put them on the fridge.
He asked if I was going to see Nate, and when I reminded him we broke up, he said, “You were friends before you were going out. Maybe it’s better not to burn that bridge. ”
Obviously, I didn’t call Nate. I took a four-hour nap instead.
For New Year’s, Dad took me out to dinner and made a big thing out of letting me drink a glass of champagne. The next morning he gave me his credit card to buy myself “something nice. ” Because I got good grades. Because he was so proud of me.
When I showed him the cashmere sweater I’d bought at the mall—the exact shade of West’s eyes—he kissed my temple, rubbed my shoulder, left me alone to watch bad movies in the den.
At night, long after Dad was asleep, I lay in the glow of the TV and waited for West to call.
I dozed off sometimes. I was so tired.
Author: Robin York
